


i'll never be lonely

by harborshore



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: “No, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and, resigned to needing to tell him the truth, attempts it: “it’s simply that it’s been quite a long time since anyone touched me, you know, or, well, with care, anyway, and I find myself—“ he falters, because Crowley looks stunned.“What—“ he says, “but—“ his always so expressive hands fall flat in the air.Heaven used to be different. Much kinder. Aziraphale has been left to himself for a very long time now, and it mostly doesn't matter, except somehow it does. (Crowley certainly thinks so.)Title from "You're my best friend."





	i'll never be lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme fic, from this prompt: 
> 
> Before Crowley Fell, Heaven was actually a pretty friendly, more touchy-feely, place, and Hell is like that too, if you...well, not Trust or Care, but are close to another Demon.
> 
> They're Evil, not Heartless.
> 
> After the Fallen, however, Heaven went, "Well, Obviously that was the problem," and became the detached, clinical, Heaven we see in the Show.
> 
> Aziraphale was from before that time and the last time he reached out to someone (up to you) for any sort of Comfort and Friendly Touch, it...ended poorly. (How poorly is up to the one who fills it)
> 
> And then he was posted, alone, at the Eastern Gate of Eden.
> 
> Since his only touch has been brief things, either from Crowley or humans bumping into him and he's very touch starved. (And the Gavotte was mostly through the fabric)
> 
> And then Crowley figures out how Bad Off Aziraphale is (over 6,000 years of No Friendly Touch) and decides to do something about it.
> 
> \+ Aziraphale barely Able To Handle, maybe breaking down in sobs over his first friendly touch in years

Most often, Aziraphale doesn’t think of it. He keeps himself rather buttoned up, of course, and he’s come to like it that way, and it certainly helps with the—well. 

The newer angels don’t remember what it used to be like, and he’s been on Earth for long enough that it shouldn’t matter that much anymore. Crowley helps, anyway. His friendships with the various rather wonderful humans he meets during his time on Earth helps too. Will - so clever. And so attached, both to his wife and to marvellous, marvellous Kit. Love is always beautiful to see. 

But he can’t help remembering Heaven before its brightest angel fell and took so many with him, the way they all used to be so close. Gabriel always claims he used to hate it, now, fixing his cuffs and droning on about appropriate behaviour, but Aziraphale remembers him, too. How his light turned cold. How they all did.

Except Aziraphale somehow never learned how. Perhaps that was the reason behind his failure at the Eastern gate, not being able to remain impersonal and unattached. Eve was so clever, so warm and so lovely, and Adam was perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer, as it were, but he was kind and creative. To this day, Aziraphale hasn’t regretted the loss of the sword, even when he saw it in the hands of War. 

The Almighty presumably intended just that use for it, anyway, or she would’ve had to find a sword somewhere else. 

But the fact remains: Aziraphale remembers what it was like when a kind touch was easy to come by, but no one has touched him since, not in kindness.

When Crowley touches him to change bodies, it shakes him to his core. There’s no time to dwell on it then, not when they know a likely capture and trial is close at hand, but oh, Aziraphale feels it and he keeps feeling it. He knows it’s improbable, but he feels like he could’ve walked through hellfire simply on the strength of that touch. A shield against evil, if ever there was one, Crowley’s love. Improbable, and they didn’t get to test that, but Aziraphale is sure.

They touch again to change back, and he can’t hide it anymore, Crowley must see it on his face, the way he trembles right down to his foundations, where his wings grow and his grace rests. The suggestion of a lunch at the Ritz is one made in desperation, because he would not lose this feeling just yet. 

At the table, Crowley touches him again, just slightly, to nudge him for another bite of his dessert (apparently it took an Apocalypse for Crowley to start indulging in chocolate beyond the odd bitter bite of the kind of with too much cocoa to be nice), and Aziraphale nearly drops his fork.

Crowley looks at him oddly. “Sorry, angel,” he says, “didn’t mean to knock you off course, I know how important chocolate fondant is to you.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Aziraphale says, because lying has never come easy to him, but he certainly doesn’t want to follow that statement with the truth. Crowley tilts his head and slides his glasses down a little, looking - really looking - at Aziraphale.

“Angel,” he says, sounding troubled. “Are you—“

“I’m quite alright,” Aziraphale says, “just the excitement catching up to me, I’m sure.” The British Stiff Upper Lip was in fact something he invented, the Stoics just took the credit. And Hamlet cemented it, which, yes, Aziraphale had a hand in that as well, of course, even if Crowley was the one who made the play a hit.

“You’re not,” Crowley says, “you’re not at all alright, did they do something down there, did, oh, Hastur was always a demon for the curses, or even Dagon, though I always liked them—“

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and, resigned to needing to tell him the truth, attempts it: “it’s simply that it’s been quite a long time since anyone touched me, you know, or, well, with care, anyway, and I find myself—“ he falters, because Crowley looks stunned.

“What—“ he says, “but—“ his always so expressive hands fall flat in the air.

“Heaven doesn’t hold with that sort of thing, these days,” Aziraphale says. “Much too, what was it Gabriel said, touchy-feely, I think.”

“But there were nests,” Crowley says. “Nests and, and hugs, angel, I remember them, are you telling me—“

“It was thought to be inadvisable to demonstrate that sort of affection,” Aziraphale says. “After the Fall. There were strong feelings around that the closeness was what prompted it, that it went too far.”

Crowley has something wild in his face, Aziraphale thinks this might be the closest he’s ever come to seeing the snake about to emerge and bite. Since the Inquisition, anyway. 

“Angel,” he says, and he’s having trouble with words, too. Aziraphale hastily miracles a stronger Don’t-Notice around them than the one they habitually use when they’re here (coming to the same restaurant for 100 years would raise some eyebrows, otherwise) in case Crowley should do something else noticeable. 

“Yes?” he says carefully.

Crowley swallows and visibly gathers himself. Aziraphale can feel it, the mounting energy dampening and evening out into - oh, that’s. He licks his lips. That’s rather a lot.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, taking Aziraphale’s hands in his gently, turning them palms up and bending to kiss one after the other. Aziraphale shivers, he can’t help it, and Crowley swears softly. 

“Now,” he says, and Aziraphale nods, dumbly, for once at a complete loss for words. 

Letting go of one hand, Crowley snaps his fingers, and the bill appears, paid and signed by Crowley’s newest alias (actual signatures are not advisable: there are things you can do with the names of demons). He snaps again, and Aziraphale blinks to find himself in the entryway of Crowley’s flat.

“Right,” Crowley says, and sags a little. “I don’t, I don’t have any of the things, it’s not nice, this flat, not like it ought to be.” Like it ought to be for taking someone you care for home, he means, and that’s just.

“It is perfectly fine,” Aziraphale says, who’s always liked Crowley’s flat, and staying in it after the world nearly ended only confirmed his feeling that it was appropriate for Crowley, and that Crowley had done rather well making a home for himself. Even if he did frighten his plants.

“It should be better than fine,” Crowley says, “angel, you—you deserve so much better than fine, all the time.”

“Oh Crowley;” Aziraphale says. “It’s not as bad as all that, I mean, I’ve never been lonely, you saw to that, and I met so many interesting people along the way—“ Crowley puts a stop to his words by pulling him close into a hug and that’s. Aziraphale shudders again and he’s afraid he holds on rather tight.

“You’re loved,” Crowley murmurs. “I mean, I, I love you. Always did, I'm afraid.” He sounds like he’s afraid he’ll be rejected, still, like he doesn’t know.

Aziraphale isn’t crying. Not at all. He’s just not going to lift his face from Crowley’s shoulder before he’s gathered himself a little. It’s possible he’s clinging.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says. He feels a little like he’s halfway out of snake form, trying to twine around Aziraphale, which makes it difficult to stay upright, and then he apparently gives it up as a lost cause and transports both of them to the bed by snapping his fingers again.

“My dear,” Aziraphale finally manages to say. “You never said.”

“I thought you had a harem of angels who were all missing you horribly,” Crowley says, and his intonation says joke but his face says it’s the truth.

“No,” Aziraphale says, and it’s his turn to be brave, it seems. “No, I was far too much in love with a serpent, I’m afraid.” Crowley pulls him as close as he can at that.

“Aren’t we a pair,” he says, one hand curving so gently around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. 

“In mid-air, even,” Aziraphale says, smiling when Crowley groans. It’s true, they are rising slightly above the black silk sheets, but that’s not why—

“Making Sondheim jokes in bed,” Crowley says, “I should’ve known.”

And as the night unfolded it turned out that the kindhearted carpenter from Betlehem had been right: the truth does indeed set you free, especially if you manage to tell it to the right person.


End file.
